Little Girl
by BlackOpal
Summary: Her sister saw her as the reason to volunteer. Gale Hawthorne saw her as his escape.


Disclaimer/Full disclosure: I envisioned her as much older than she is in the book. 16, 17 or so. Almost on par with everyone else, despite everyone seeing her as the innocent girl they need to protect. It's an interesting dynamic to think about and if she was older, wouldn't it be natural they'd find each other? Also, I don't own HG or the characters, Suzanne Collins does.

* * *

And since I have to be in love with someone  
Since I need to be in love with someone  
Maybe I could be in love with someone  
Like you...  
"Nobody Needs to Know" from The Last Five Years

She looks nothing like her sister. The hard, determined look he found so often on her sister's face is nowhere on her's. Everything about her is soft: her voice, her features, her skin. Even next to her now, with her lips parted, the soft breath that escapes is barely enough to stir him. Her sister was a whirlwind. Her sister had the capability to blow apart his seams with a single look. The woman besides him now weaves him back together again.

He rolls on to his side and grips her neck. She jolts awake, those soft features furrowing, for a brief second, into a look of concern. He pulls her close to him. He presses her lips to his and, with such force, they kiss.

His hands slide up her skin, tracing all of her parts. Even under the blankets, in the safety of the heated room, she is cool to touch. She responds to him, angling herself so she can be closer. She takes her hands and enjoins them behind his back. She is nothing he wants and everything he needs.

Three weeks. It had been three weeks before he ended at her doorstep and started watching the Games together. It was always the same. He would venture over and she would welcome him. They would sit on the couch, shoulder to shoulder. Her mother would stare at the projection with the same lifeless expression every time. With each hour that passed, her mother's shoulders would slump and her breath would catch until she finally didn't even watch at all. She just existed.

And each time the girl on fire appeared on the screen, they would shudder. On the screen, she weaved in and out of the woods with a grace he'd come to miss. She hunted, she plotted and she survived. And every time from besides him, her sister would cry.

When the boy with the bread's name escaped his girl on fire's lips, he gave up everything. She was determined. She wanted to find the boy with the bread and would risk her life to do so. From that moment, there were kisses and whispers and they would sleep next to each other.

And from that moment, he reached down across the couch and picked up the softest hand. And she had gripped it.

He hears the door slam downstairs and the rhythm of his brothers across the hardwood floor.

"You need to go," he mutters between kisses. "Hurry, before they come up, or—." Or they'll see.

She sits up and dangles her legs over the edge of his bed. She reaches around, clasps her bra and pulls on her underthings. He takes a shameless moment to stare at her. She obliges, holding the rest of her clothes to her side in one hand. How many times have they done this? Will he ever get tired of this sight: the long blonde hair cascading down, the tiny waist, and the graceful limbs? His eyes linger on her face. Her eyes are still blurry from waking up and her cheeks flushed from his unabashed examination of her body. But beyond that, he begins to notice the way her forehead creases just like her sister's. The last time he saw that feature had been right before a clean arrow shot, right in the squirrel's eye. They had been sitting—

As if she suddenly becomes aware that he was no longer seeing her, the girl takes the dress she holds bunched in her hand and throws it on. From outside the door, someone calls his name.

"Go," he hisses. She hesitates. "Now!"

"When will I see you next?" Her voice is barely a whisper.

"Soon." He said and she leans out the window, hidden by the thick forestation surrounding the little house. With her gone, he pulls on the remainder of his clothes and ventures to the kitchen.

Downstairs, his mother idly dresses the rabbit he'd caught earlier from one of his traps. The smell of wild potatoes and gravy rise up from the pot to greet him. He takes a seat next to the stove and began to stir out the lumps.

"What are you doing," she asks. He looks up, but she has not turned from her work. Her fingers still pull the fur from the small body in front of her.

"Stirring," he says, "Thought you needed help."

She sighs audibly and puts down the game. She turns around slowly, the blood dripping from her fingers. The look she wears is frightening, so he chooses to ignore it. He's not a child she could scold anymore.

"That's not what I meant." He continues stirring, long strokes that spin the gravy inside out. She moves towards him and grabs his hand, causing the spoon to slip from his grasp. "When are you going to put an end to this?"

"She knows what she's doing." He replies. Without movement, the gravy begins to bubble and burn.

"She's hurting," she retorts. Her voice is like the cleaver she had discarded on the butcher block next to her. It cuts through him, causing him to recoil. Her voice becomes gentler before saying, "You're hurting."

He is so tired of people treating him like this, so tired of the whispers he hears behind him in the hob and the gifts they pass on to him while he tries to barter. Because they know, just as he does, that the girl on fire does not belong to the boy with the bread, but is with him nonetheless. He drops the spoon completely and stands up from the stove. He does not need her sympathy.

"She's just a little girl."

"No, Mother," he says, thinking of the marks that still sear his back, "She is not just a little girl."

* * *

"It's going to end tonight." The man next to him nudges him. The man expects him to react, but he remains passive.

"What do I care?" He asks the man.

"Thought you might care if she lived or died," the man says and passes him a coin for the pheasant they were exchanging. "It's a big night. Hope the odds are in her favor." And the man grins.

It takes every effort not to punch him. To some people, those who don't care who lives and who dies as long as they got a good show, she was just another tribute. He yanks the pheasant back from the man's grasp and shoves the coin in its place.

"Hey!" The man objects, but he is already too far away to hear him.

He walks down the beaten path to the little cottage, even smaller than his. The plants lay neglected against the walk. They are barren and shriveled and the walkway crumbles under his shoes. An orange cat hisses at his ankles, but does nothing to prevent him from knocking on the door.

It is a while before it opened, but when it does, she stands behind it. It is dark inside, and her white shift stands out against the black. It had days since he last saw her. After the conversation with his mother, he had kept his distance. People are whispering, his mother had warned; don't ruin what little she has left. But here they stand- him perfectly straight and her body framed in contrasting colors, tense in anticipation.

She smiles slowly because he is here and she needs him. Still, there is a sense of insecurity between them. Today would be a defining moment and their lives hang in the balance. They have an unspoken agreement not to think about what lay ahead either way it ends. He hands her the pheasant.

As she crosses the room to the refrigerator, he watches her. Her sister would stomp whereas she floats. Her sister would've taken the time to stop and pluck it clean right then and there. His sister would have done everything correctly. Instead, she moves back to him and motions him inside, leaving the pheasant to rot. He should've cleaned it for her.

She walks to the couch. He follows and sits where the cushion still holds his imprint. Everything is familiar, from her mother's flat stare to the brush of her sleeve against him as she sits next to him. The hologram glows in front of them, as bright as the dress she wears. And the girl on fire plays her part on the screen.

They watch as the girl they love tears at the mutts. The arrows she lets lose hit their targets so perfectly well. She desperately clings to her partner, the boy with the bread. She takes on the other tribute as he lunges at her. She kills. And then, the announcement comes that only one could survive.

And though it is cold and calculating, back in the district, sitting on the worn couch, he lets out a breath of appreciation. This would solve his problem. This would ensure he was the only one for her. This would put an end to everyone else's sympathy. He would finally be with the one he desired most. But deep down, he knows she won't finish it. This is the girl who gave up her life to save that of her sister. She would, undoubtedly, do the same again.

Then the berries. She outsmarts even the gamemakers, holds them out and offers them to her partner. And she succeeds. The second announcement rings out and it is over. She survived. He survived. They both would be coming home.

He sinks back into the folds of the couch beneath him. On the hologram, a ship flies down to pick up the boy with the bread and the girl on fire.

And besides him, her sister begins to cry.

* * *

There's plenty of fanfare when the train arrives. The boy with the bread gets off first. He smiles and it looks genuine. The girl on fire appears next to them, and though she smiles as well, it does not envelop her.

And though he has waited for this moment for a lifetime- that moment where she would see him and he would see her and they would be together again. When she embraces her sister and they collide together, the feeling is not as he imagined it. He feels as muddy as the boy with the bread in the river. The sisters bend their heads and their limbs intertwine. People swarm around him. They clutch each other and cheer. He sees the boy with the bread limp off toward his own family. But he remains planted.

From underneath outstretched arms and tears, the girl on fire meets his eyes. All this time, all he wanted… it was right here in front of him. He starts to smile. And while he carefully reminds himself of the cameras that were watching the girl on fire's every move, he forgets about her sister, who, as she clings so desperately to whatever she has left, levels her gaze at him.

* * *

"You kissed her," her voice rings out against the hollowness of the empty house. They were standing in the home he's visited so often before, though no one lives here anymore. The couch sits in the corner, the projector switched off.

"You kissed her." Another accusation. She swings the mug around precariously in her hand, switching from one to the other. Dust flies up from underneath her movement and sticks to the blonde hair on her arms.

He doesn't deny it. There's no sense. He knew she had been watching, but it seemed like such a minute thing to worry himself with at the time. Now, as he watches the small frame shake with frustration he had caused, he feels guilt. The cup should smash against the floor, but she is more even tempered than that.

She looks at him like he is the center of her world, like he is the glue that holds her together. He doesn't understand how he got here. He had promised to protect her, but what gave him the right to use her like this?

"Just tell me," she says, resting the cup on the table. She comes near him and places her hands against his skin. Dust settles into his second skin of coal. Would he ever come clean? He runs his fingers up her arms. He hooks his thumb under the button of her shirt and tugs. She lurches towards him. He peels her blouse open. Breasts and skin, all bare, before him and he forgets to breathe as he bends down to kiss her neck.

She had done this before. It had been weeks since her sister had returned and weeks since they started the Sunday ritual. He knew she was jealous. He just didn't care. Usually, he just convinces her to relax, to leave the questions unanswered and enjoy the moment here and now.

"No," she pulls away, wrapping her shirt and her senses around her. "No. Tell me."

And while he is still convinced that her sister is stronger, he doesn't waiver when he says, "This is the last time."

He eases her shirt open once more and lifts him to her. Lips meet, her tongue slips into him and she slams onto the table. This is better, he thinks. Her arms sink besides him, struggling to grip him tighter. The cup, delicately placed, slips from its place and shatters on the floor.

The last time, he assures himself again, and buries himself inside her.

* * *

Cold hands run slick over his back. Though he still feels a fog around him, he opens his eyes. Fire burns him. A soft smile and a forehead touch against him.

"You're back," she says so gently. He has never seen her as careful with another person, only with an animal on the cusp of death. He smiles as much as he's able.

"You're still here," he counters. Her fingers dance over his arm. He's aware of the pressure on his back and the slow dripping of liquid down the curve of his stomach. The stench of blood surrounds him. But he's mostly aware of searing pain.

He groans. She leans against him, soothing him, but keeping him from moving all the same. "He needs more," she urges past him. "Please, he's in pain."

The fog is thick, but he fights through it. He is on a table in the kitchen of her house. The fire rages in front of him and she is to his side. But she's talking to someone. While he can't sit up, he at least can turn his head. The floorboards are stained with red. Did that come from him? A pair of bare feet are before him. His eyes glide up the legs he's kissed, past the thighs he's pried apart, up the stomach he's slept on, the chest he's embraced, the shoulders he's held down and into the eyes he's tried to forget. Her lips purse together and she plunges the needle into his neck.

"There," mutters the girl on fire besides him, "You'll sleep now."

The last thing he feels before sleep envelops him is four hands, pressing against him from all sides.

* * *

He spends the next few weeks in the mines. Though he always feels alive in the fresh air, underground he feels like he is on fire all the time. It was a feeling he's missed with her gone. The sounds of pickaxes ring out. Monotony has become his world now. She plays her part on the screens around the district. He plays his in the mines.

She wasn't coming home. He knows that. He knew when he saw her exchange a resolute glance with the drunken fool she'd entrusted to save their mutual interest...him. She had never been great at judging characters.

Was she pregnant? The thought churns his stomach too often lately. The boy with the bread was certainly convincing enough and ever since she found out she was going back into the arena, his girl on fire had pulled away. Who knows what they could've done while they were together and he was in the mines.

He liked to think she wouldn't betray him like that.

"Again?" A coworker walks in and slams down a hammer. Specks of coal flies into his face. "Dude."

He shakes his head, "I gotta get out of the rut man." And he slams his own hammer down. The coworker nods his head in agreement. They work together, hitting the same spot in unison, listening to the pounding bouncing off of the cage they were in.

"It's almost done, there's just a few left." His hammer slips and misses his mark. "I guess that's not really a great assurance though."

The poundings are slow and steady like his days have been. But then, as he brings his hammer down, the walls around him shake. He looks to his teammate, but his confusion is mirrored on his friend's face. It happens again, a rattling deep down. It is an unnatural sound. That is the only thing he knows about it—it should not be here.

They need to get out. Run. The primal instinct to surface overtakes him. They run for the elevator. They shove in between the few men who also realized the urgency and pull the level to rise to the surface.

Horror greets them. Severed limbs and burning bodies litter the ground. He fights an urge to go back down, but the way the bombs are still dropping, he knows it's only a matter of time before the mines collapse as well. The roads have changed. Where houses once lined the street, their rubble had collapsed into the various lanes. And the sound of screams pours out from every one of them.

He tries to help. But the bombs keep falling and the fire keeps spreading. He has other priorities and the hands that reach out to him as not part of that. He takes off down those streets. It's been a long time since he's run. He can only go so far in the mines.

He reaches her house, but it is empty. The village had been spared. He pushes down his panic and sprints for his own house. Empty. A horrible vision of his mother's blood and siblings' bodies flood his mind. Where are they? He tries to think like the animals he's chased. They would run away from the threat, not towards it.

By the time he reaches the fence, it's clear he's made the right decision. He sees the stubby hair of his brother. They gather under the trees just beyond the town's line. He calls to others in the town and urges them to follow him. Upon hearing his voice, his family stands and turns to him. She's there as well, but she is on the ground and not moving.

He runs to her. The gentle sister who would never hurt a fly lies still and clutches her leg.

"A pole fell on her," her mother whispers in the quiet way she does, "She barely got out in time."

But he doesn't listen. He squats next to her and she wraps her arms around her neck. Bombs are still falling and coming closer to the line. Whoever sent them seems to realize where the survivors are gathering. They need the cover of the trees. She folds herself into him and he picks her up with relative ease. She has always been the delicate one.

He guides them to the meadow. He had been there once with the girl on fire. It was a secret she had kept from him and only showed him when she deemed him worthy. Now, cradling her sister in his arms, he isn't sure he deserves that title. She whines and rolls closer into him. Her mother falls in line behind them, his mother next to him. They look to the sky and hope that, eventually, someone will come save them.

In between rumbles, he can't help but wonder: what happened to the girl on fire? Did she burn too?

* * *

When the sirens shrill this time, he does not hesitate to rush to her. It surprises him. He finds himself at her door before he can process how he got there and barges in. She is halfway out the window, waving a napkin towards the tree trunk. He pushes forward and grabs her around the waist, pulling her inside to safety.

Her fingers claw at his wrists, "My kitty," she whines and twists to get out of his grasp. "Please," she cries, "He's still out there."

He hates the cat. The cat has never liked him, always glowering as he sat next to her on the couch and would jump down into his lap if he got too close to her. Her sister hates the cat and he was always loyal to his sister. But, she is frantic, so he reaches up. The cat is two feet away from his reach and eyes him wearily. Impending doom did not entertain the ball of fur.

He wiggles his fingers and calls its name. Suddenly, a huge boom comes from behind them both. Smoke rises up from the ground and the motors of planes fills their ears. The cat yowled. Another bomb falls and more smoke. Within seconds, the cat smashes into his arms. He pulls away and feels her arms around him, hugging them both close to her.

"We have to go," he says, gripping her tightly at his side. She kisses him, again and again.

"You saved him." Her soft lifts meld against him. She just feels so good. He has a brief, fleeting image of her on top of him, her hair dangling in front of his eyes, shielding their naked bodies in a thin veil. "Thank you."

They make their way down the hall, dodging flecks of plaster that fall onto them. Several turns later, a large chunk dangled precariously close to her face. He pulls her into him just in time. It falls straight down and dents the floor.

They see the closing doors slipping almost to the ground.

"Wait," she calls out, dropping his hand. They slip into the room where everyone else waits for them.

Her sister vaults forward and hugs her. She looks at him with gratitude and he can't help but feel like a traitor.

* * *

He sees her hands in his brother's over a mealy apple that fades in his mouth. The way his fingers move around her, tracing shapes into her palm, spurs a feeling that could only be described as blind rage. And why? She was young, she was beautiful and his brother was safe. But he knew his brother and knew boys and knew what he wanted.

She laughs softly at his brother. Her hair falls into her face and joy lights up within her. He is jealous. His brother brings his arm around and grips her closer, pressing his cheek into her blonde hair. He is so jealous.

He drops the fork and it clatters against the metal plate. She sets her eyes on him and he sees the dare. He left her, he chose the girl on fire and has been obsessed with her since they returned on the hover craft. She dares him to let her go, to take her sister instead.

He breaks away and his brother leans down to whisper something to her. She nods and his brother grins. She stands up, says her goodbye and heads towards the door. He watches as his brother wipes his sweaty hands against his pants. Then stands up.

"Go home," he says to his brother. "You don't know what you're doing with her."

His brother falters, a blush creeping into his face. "What?"

But he doesn't answer. He reaches around the table and shoves his brother down by his shoulders. "Leave her alone. Do not try it."

And because his brother knows of the deep relationship he has with her sister, he accepts it. He was responsible for her whole family, responsible for protecting her along with the girl on fire.

So his brother stays seated and instead, he walks out of the cafeteria. He looks around the hall. Something inside him knows where she is, because it's where he's been before. Her sister retreats there to hide and regroup and occasionally he's been there as well. Picking up pieces and gluing her back together.

It's only fitting she would run here as well.

He pries open the door, carefully so no one in the surrounding area would hear his betrayal. She's there, standing under boxes of paper and perfectly sharpened pencils. She has taken her hair down from the tight District 13 approved bun she wore so often now. The top few buttons of her blouse were undone and again, that stab of jealousy cut him as he knew it was for his brother.

She sees him and her face furrows into a look of surprise. But it is fleeting and in just a few seconds, she folds her hands over her chest and glares.

"What are you doing here?" She hisses, her throat sliding up and down with each word. The slip out like the paperclips she stands under, curved with sharp edges.

He doesn't answer. He knows she is angry, he knows she has seen him with her sister and seen their relationship and knows he has claimed the girl on fire as his. He knows he has cast her aside and she has looked towards other venues, other people to find that connection.

He knows all this, but he still strides towards her. He still lifts her, gripping her knees as he draws her into him. She pulls away, but she doesn't really try. He crushes her against him. He brings his lips, his teeth, and his tongue into hers. She breathes into him and he hears the low hum of her moan. His hands slide up her thighs and he adjusts her so that there is no denying what either of them wants. She is on top of him and she is against the wall and they are together. She grows louder, bringing her lips to meet his. Her tongue glides across them and up his jawline. She shakes and he draws tight. Under her, he feels his vision start to blur as she shifts faster.

"Say my name," she whispers into his ear. It is husky and he feels it in his gut. She starts to slow the rocking she's perfected in her hips. His fingers press into her harder as if he could convince her with touch. He needs her to keep that rhythm. Desire burns away the jealousy—he just wants her now.

"My name," she demands again, harder. He feels her teeth brush against his ear. Her fingernails dig into the grooves of his back. "Say it."

And because he is on the edge, because he can feel himself so far inside her, so close, he breathes "Prim."

"Prim," he says again. He feels her smile. "Prim, Prim, Prim." With each utterance, she drives faster and faster. She rewards him for committing to her. He feels her crashing down on him and he can't control himself. He pulls her close one last time and utters her name one last time before he goes silent.

And she waits. She does not untangle herself, but instead cradles the back of his head. She listens to his breath hitch, contract and catch. He tries to steady himself, focusing on her skin which felt cool under his heat. Only after he slows, only after she is sure he has complete control, does she step down from his hold. She places both feet on the ground and pulls down her skirt.

"Remember that," she says. It is the last thing he hears except for the click of the door behind her.

* * *

Silver is the worst color. Not as pure as white or as dark as black, silver deceives. And in the sun, under the bright light and next to the dark marble of the Capitol, it bleeds.

The children's screams are impossible to shut out. He can feel the fire on his skin, but the cries are what causes his pain. A small girl, clutching an arm that was no longer attached, stumbles over a patch of concrete. She slips and falls to the ground.

From the window, he sees a blonde bend over the little girl and cradle her. Hands he is all too familiar with pick up the severed arm. Blonde hair surrounds around the pair and makes a veil, shielding the gore from his eyes.

He can't breathe, he can't find himself. He knows he is standing in a house and he knows he is in danger. The Peacekeepers besides him tell him that. But he can't focus on anything else but the window besides him. The sun catches those silver parachutes just right. The fabric glints, and then with only the briefest hiss for warning, the fabric explodes.

When he looks again, there is a giant hole where she used to be standing.

* * *

When she comes to see him the next morning, he cannot look at her. She is covered head to toe in scars, but the grief is etched into her skin.

"Did you do it?" She asks, "Were they yours?"

"I don't know," he answers. He sees bits and pieces of her sister in the way she holds herself.

"How could you?" He feels the sharpness behind her agony. Once, a long time ago, he would have held her. He could have reached for her and pulled her close. "She was just a little girl," she rasps.

He thinks of her sister, bare and beautiful like how he remembers her best. "No," he says, thinking of the store closet and the kitchen table and his bed. "No," he reiterates, his voice a little stronger now, "She was not just a little girl."


End file.
